A/N: I forgot to mention that this takes place before Hero, so Aiden's not dead. But neither is she in this story, sorry.

Ch. 2

Concern to Worry

Three days later. 4:00 am...

" You're such a dork...!"

Thump.

Danny snapped from the darkness, opening his eyes to... darkness. Sounds drifted in and out of his ears, muffled by distance and congestion thick as liquid in his head. Some of the sounds faded away, being nothing more than thoughts and dream residue. Funny how they lingered when he couldn't remember his dreams. Too jumbled.

Other sounds remained, garbled, intrusive, a clutter of noise that even beyond Danny's immediate surroundings still made his head pound. He took a deep breath when his lungs demanded air, and soon regretted it when the coughs erupted, never allowing him the chance for another inhale. And to top the misery off, it was accompanied by pain as though every single one of his ribs were busted. Not in reality. It was the muscles – abused and sore to the point that when not causing him agony they were a constant source of discomfort.

Another thump, jolting Danny enough to get him to lift his head from the pillow. His previously sluggish heart worked its way from a slow stupor to a faster thud. He lessened his breathing enough to better hear the sounds.

" Shhh! quiet," someone hissed no where near a whisper. Interspersed between the voices that rose into coherence or fell into murmurs were bouts of obnoxious giggling. Another thump, and this time the jolt was only done by Danny's heart.

" You're gonna piss off the guy who lives here," some female voice snickered.

" Chill, he's probably asleep." A male voice, deep, rather slurred.

" I think he's a cop..." another female voice, just as drunkenly giddy and giggly.

" Let's find out..." the male again.

" No!" the female, still giddy, still drunk. Then came a timid knock on Danny's door, making his heart slam. What the hell was wrong with these people? He wanted to get up, storm to the door, throw it open, cuss them a new one until giggles turned into sobs. He thought about it, wished for it, urged his body to move. His mind drifted, hazing, and his desire became a dream, over and over, when he heard another thump and his eyes snapped open.

" No one's ho-ome!" a voice simpered, laughing, mocking, too happy, too sure. Cold crept like droplets of ice down Danny's spine, increasing the cold until he shivered. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself, curling into it until he was cocooned. It didn't help, and he could have sworn the cold was radiating from his insides. The laughter beyond his door turned shrill and wild. He heard someone yell shut up, which only encouraged the laughter.

Danny hated to admit it, but it was scaring the hell out of him. All his urging, pleading, and screaming at his body to get up and get rid of the situation did nothing but produce the beginnings of dreams. He pulled his arms beneath him, laying his hands flat, and tried to push himself up. He could move his arms just fine, but pushing was beyond his means when his arms shook without actually accomplishing anything. Danny coughed, wincing and groaning from the pain.

" You hear something?" male, giggly as the girls, asked. Danny held his breath, listening, but heard only more laughter.

This was getting too freaky, and as much as it pissed him off to admit it, if things turned even more freaky or just plain ugly, he was screwed. He had no strength – period. He was officially, undeniable, wiped out, and couldn't recall a single time in his life when he'd felt so weak.

But it wasn't like he was without options. His arms still had the power to move. So he reached out with an unsteady hand to the small desk beside his bed, wrapping his fingers around the handle of the top drawer. It took way more effort than it should have opening it up, and even more effort to reach inside, wrap his fingers around the butt of his gun, and carry it from the drawer to slip beneath his pillow, barrel facing away – he wasn't stupid to just stick it haphazardly beneath his head. Sleeping with a gun beneath his pillow wasn't a first for him, just a habit he'd been trying to break. Today, he didn't care about habits, he just wanted to be ready, just in case.

He couldn't close the drawer, didn't even try. He simply pulled his arm back beneath the covers and curled even tighter into himself, still shivering as laughter ricocheted through his skull, every sound jolting his heart, just lacking the power to wake him.

NY

6:00 am...

Mac circled the body by taking methodical, thought out steps that kept him from treading on anything he would regret later. It was like prowling after the fact, with the kill already killed, so nothing to pounce. It was actually a comforting thing being able to always be ruled out as the predator, and he had to smirk in consideration that he was more like the vulture, ready to pick the meat apart.

Actually, the meat picking was Hammerback's forte, gruesome as the rumination was. Mac just picked at everything else.

The body, sprawled on the dusty floor of a vacant warehouse with condemned tagged all over it, looked to be about six foot, a hundred and ninety, maybe two hundred pounds, late thirties with short brown hair receding a bit from the forehead and thin at the top. The wound looked to be a shot to the back and a through and through with blood pooling beneath in an almost perfect circle. Time of death, actual cause – that was for the real 'vulture' to determine. Hammerback was going to just love that little analogy.

In terms of getting a real kick out of it, Mac knew Hawkes would. And speaking of the former mortician, Mac glanced up in time to see him heading Mac's way, kit in hand, being trailed by Lindsey trying to stifle a yawn. Mac nodded a greeting to both.

" Sorry to have called you in so early," he said.

Hawkes stopped four feet from the body and set his kit down. " Early? You call this early?" He smirked. " I call this sleeping in."

Lindsey set down her own kit to rummage through it for some gloves. " I call this hell after only four hours sleep. But, hey, it pays so no real complaints here."

Mac smiled. " Glad to hear it. Stella's already handled the photos. I need you two to spread out. It's a big warehouse, lots of junk, and there's good reason to believe it was being used for more than just dumping unwanted crap."

The two CSIs snapped on their gloves while taking in the massive room. Old car parts and carcasses of decrepit furniture littered the floor along the walls and piled in the corners. The only seeming semblance of order was a table seven feet from the victim, three chairs, a brief case, and water-stained box full of papers, and an empty glass ashtray on the table. Stella was crouched before the briefcase, snapping more photos. Detective Flack stood off to the side, observing and waiting.

It would have been a nice 'gangs all here' type of situation if one Danny Messer wasn't out sick – still, for the fourth day counting when he cut work early to head home. Mac was starting to get a little anxious for the younger man. Danny had made good on his promise about calling to say he wasn't going to make it in. The voice message he'd left behind only an hour ago had Mac concerned.

Hey, Mac? It's Messer. Not gonna be making it in today. Um... what the hell time is it? Ah crap! Five in the... crap, I'm so sorry, Mac, I thought... It was... later. I gotta... go. I am so freakin' tired. Sorry man...

Danny's voice – exhausted, weak, and hoarse – hadn't been easy to hear. Mac had had to listen to the message five times until deciphered, and even after hearing the message it took a moment for Mac to realize that it had been Danny. And then Mac was called in to the scene now surrounding him. Between observations of the room, he contemplated stopping by Danny's for a quick check on his absent CSI.

" Hey, Mac?" said the always polite voice of Lindsey. He turned to see her standing behind him, twining her hands together and pulling them apart in fidgeting unease. When she had Mac's attention, she dropped her hands to her sides. But the unease she couldn't mask, and wasn't even trying.

" Yeah?" Mac said.

" Um... You haven't heard anything from Danny lately, have you? I haven't, and that's why I'm wondering. I mean I was the one who had to escort him to a cab. I thought about calling to see how he was, but didn't want to wake him if he was taking a nap or anything. He wasn't looking too good that day..."

Mac smiled at her, mostly in understanding, but also a little in humor at her show of concern for a guy who normally didn't have to put up much effort to get on her nerves.

" Actually he left me a message this morning." Mac's smile faded a little. " Didn't sound all that great. Still sick and probably hitting the peak of it."

Lindsey's face screwed into a small grimace. " For this long?"

Mac shrugged. " Could go longer."

" Not that I'm volunteering to play nurse or anything – and please don't tell Danny I said that – But he should really have someone stopping by to help him out, like his parents or something."

Mac couldn't help himself. " Sure you're not volunteering?" Monroe and Messer's acquaintanceship might have started off rocky thanks to Danny's inability to refrain from a good prank, but the two had hit it off without actually seeming to realize it eventually.

Lindsey narrowed her eyes. " Extremely sure - nothing against Danny. I refuse to suffer through whatever he's got. It's just that it's never a good idea to be an invalid and alone. Especially with the way flus can get – not that I think Danny'll die from it or anything. I was just wondering if – you know – anyone was helping him out."

Mac clicked his tongue. " You have a point, but you also know Danny. The flaw of an independent streak is never thinking to ask for help. I was thinking of dropping by at some time, probably during lunch, to check on him. You could come with me."

Lindsey scrunched her nose. " Um, you know what? That's okay. You can just give me the gist of it. Like I said, I refuse to suffer through what he has. Besides, he might not be up to having too many visitors."

" Probably," Mac replied. Lindsey nodded and moved over to the table, kneeling for a closer look at the ash tray before lifting it.

NY

Sheldon Hawkes tried to keep up the facade that he hadn't been listening. Problem was, there were more important matters than maintaining his reputation as someone who didn't ease drop. Worry over Danny was probably universal, but identical only to a certain extent. Lindsey's worry was more common, stemming from lack of news. Sheldon's concern ran a little deeper, a little more medical. Even something as simple as the flu could be nasty, and there had been something about Danny's condition, something Sheldon had yet to place a name to, that was pulling at him, and it was centered around him catching Danny tossing out most of his lunch the day he'd gone home.

Sheldon continued his little act long enough to swab some sort of substance several feet from the body that had left a small trail coming either toward the vic or from. He placed the swab in the capsule, in his kit, then rose from his crouch to head over to Mac, already cringing about his admittance to something he normally didn't do.

" Uh, hey Mac," he said, grabbing the older man's attention. Mac looked up at him.

" Yeah?"

" I, uh... kind of – overheard – you saying that you were heading over to Danny's? I was thinking about doing the same thing myself, and was wondering if it would be cool if I tagged along."

" For medical insight?" Mac asked.

" Something like that. Just to make sure this thing isn't too nasty, you know?"

Mac knelt beside the body across from the former coroner. " Actually, that wouldn't be a bad idea. If this thing is worse than he realizes, he'd probably take you more seriously on it than me."

Sheldon felt the muscles of his shoulders unknot without realizing they'd even been tensed. " Yeah, exactly." He went back to the substance smeared on the floor, rather black, a little wet, like oil or moistened soot, a chemical analysis would tell. He took another swab of the stuff to bring to his nose, and on sniffing scented the dizzying pungency of oil.

Sporadic ringing resounded sharp through the warehouse. Hawkes glanced over his shoulder to see Mac flipping his phone open to speak. He said a few words, flipped the phone close, and already started heading for the door.

" Stella, I got another call in. Can you handle things here?"

" Sure thing, Mac," Stella replied while flashing more pictures.

NY

From the dusky safety of the alley across the street, Byron narrowed his eyes at the man jumping into the black truck and pulling away. It was a sudden departure Byron hadn't been expecting. The mess in the warehouse should have kept the whole group in the building for at least an hour, maybe more, but an hour at most. On the plus side, the man hadn't been carrying anything with him. He was off on some other mission, errand, or whatever. So the ones that mattered were the ones still cooped up in that glorified trash bin.

When the truck pulled from the curb, Byron stepped back a little ways, deeper where the light was at its dimmest in the alley. African American male, age approximately thirty-eight, six foot, bald, two hundred pounds was not a pleasant thing to hear over the squawk-box police scanner Elliot kept in the van.

Speaking of the van, Byron heard the tell-tale crunch of asphalt from the street on the other side of the alley. He turned, and walked casually to that other side where the rust-red van waited. Elliot was in the driver's seat, and lifted his head in acknowledgment when Byron approached. Elliot – out of all the white boys Byron felt forced to work with – was the only Caucasian he didn't mind giving the title of business partner to. The man was medium height, heavily built, with blond hair cropped close to the scalp, and a clean-shaven face. He was soft-spoken by nature, hardly ever said a word, and that's how Byron liked it, because everyone else didn't know how or when to shut up.

As if on cue, the moment Byron yanked the door open and hopped in, Mitchel started up.

" What the hell is going on, Byron?" he tried to demand, but it came out sounding like a seven year old asking if they were there yet. Byron didn't give the man the benefit of eye contact. He just pointed forward.

" Park near enough to the place to keep it in sight, but to keep us out of sight. Cool?"

Elliot nodded.

" Byron!"

Byron rolled his eyes up to the rear-view mirror. Mitchel was leaning forward, one hand on his knee, the other clasping the shoulder of Kevin. Byron closed his eyes in silent frustration. Mitchell played at having brains, but he was nothing more than a glorified bouncer with a head too hot for rational thought. He was the muscle, that was all, but couldn't get that through his head. Tall as Byron, with dark hair slicked back, sharp features, and gray-blue eyes always scowling. Mitchell, as of late, had become the bane to Byron's existence, and the kink in his operations, all because the man thought himself more than what he was.

Beside Mitchell, Kevin – the youngest – was squirming. The kid was twenty-five, shorter than Mitchell, and only slightly smarter. He was wiry, sporting sandy spiked hair and a goatee. He might have had the obedience of a dog, but more like those little yappy dogs that go off at everything. The kid was too jumpy, and had the bad luck of believing anything anyone had to tell him, including Mitchell.

Elliot pulled a U-turn to head into the alley down from the one Byron had hidden in. Dark, away from the warehouse, but still with the warehouse in sight. Byron smiled, clasping Elliot on the shoulder.

" Good, this is good."

" Byron!"

Byron finally turned, narrowing his eyes and staring Mitchell down to the size of an insect.

" Can it, Mitch. We had a mishap, all right? Jack screwed us, that's all you need to know. Now we've got us a problem, and I need you to shut up and keep a listen on the box, see what might come up. In the meantime, we're going to watch that building, see what they take out, wait for the right time when we can get in. Got it? Because that's all I'm going to tell you for now. The rest comes when it's important, and not until then."

Mitchell was about to protest, wanted to, but clapped his mouth shut when Byron lowered his eyelids.

Byron smiled. " Good boy." He then turned to watch the warehouse, pulling out binoculars from the seat pocket for a better view, flicking his tonger over his lips, and picturing Jack's squirming body as he roasted in hell.

NY

A/N: What is going on, you ask? Patience, I say, for all will be revealed. Plus more gross Danny coughing up phlegm moments. Yum.